It's Like the Old Terran Fairy Tales
by crystalblood
Summary: Spock's mother dies at childbirth, and Sarek is left alone in raising a half-Human child. He approaches a Vulcan mind-healer, who eventually becomes his wife. After the events of the Narada, Kirk and McCoy must deal with the aftershocks of Spock's grief.
1. Prologue: Once Upon a Time

It's Like the Old Terran Fairy Tales

Prologue:

_Once upon a Time_

**Fandom: **Star Trek XI

**Genre: **Drama, with an (un)healthy dose of Angst.

**Word Count: **This chapter, around 2,500.

**Summary: **Amanda dies at childbirth and Sarek is left alone in raising a half-Human child. Confounded, he approaches a Vulcan mind-healer, who eventually becomes his wife. After the events of the _Narada_, Kirk and McCoy must deal with the aftershocks of Spock's grief.

**Rating: **This chapter is PG-13, for subtle mentions of abuse.

**Pairings:** The story as a whole can be seen as the beginning of the epic friendship between Kirk, Spock, and McCoy…or, perhaps, the beginning of some epic Spock/McCoy. Either way is fine with me :)

**Spoilers: **For _Star Trek XI_. Minor spoilers for McCoy's backstory in _TOS_ and the older films, and major spoilers for the Grimms' version of popular fairy tales.

**Warnings: **For this chapter, implications of the mental/psychological abuse of children.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Star Trek_, much to my chagrin. Neither money nor other tangible gain is being made by writing this story…as much as I wish this were not the case.

**A/N: **Quotes from the Grimms' fairy tales are taken from their final edition. Translations are mine, and therefore, all mistakes. The Vulcan title contained herein I translate as "healer of the mind." I made this up using the VLD. The idea of Spock having a stepmother comes from a prompt on the LJ kink meme.

-o-

Spock committed his first subversive act at the age of three.

"My wife, what are you doing?" asked Father. Spock peered out from behind his ambassadorial robes, green and gold brocade against his cheek.

"Lady Grayson is dead. Her belongings need not remain in the house." Stepmother closed the box she was examining and extended the first two fingers of her right hand.

Father returned the gesture. "It is one box."

"The container is large," Stepmother answered. "It would be more logical to dedicate the space to things that would further Spock's education."

Spock slipped completely behind Father's legs. He did not like Stepmother's 'education.' Father did not tug the robes out of Spock's curling fists as he usually did. "It would also be logical to wait," he replied. "The influence of Spock's Human heritage could affect him in ways we cannot yet realize."

"How do his mother's things affect him?" she asked, spreading an arm to encompass the objects behind her. "There are no family heirlooms and nothing from her clan. I have looked."

"That is not what makes Amanda's things important, not to a Human. When Spock is older, and more capable of understanding, he may wish to have them, and may even draw comfort from them."

At these words, Brother looked up from the PADD he was reading in the corner of the room. Stepmother brought her arm back to her side. "Your argument is at odds with your objectives, husband. Is it not your intention to have your son follow the Vulcan way?"

"It is my will that Spock be given the opportunity. When he is older, he may choose to commit to a different way."

"You know my thoughts on this. Spock has a strong, turbulent mind. Combined with his physical Vulcan strength, he could become a danger to society."

"You also know my thoughts on this subject; I am confident in Spock's abilities."

Brother, often so full of energy, sat as still as desert rock on a moonlit night. Spock peeked from behind Father's legs and saw that Stepmother had come nearer. He drew in a sharp breath and scurried lightly to hide beside the big box. It was bright blue and strange in the middle of a room full of earth tones, cool to the touch, wholly fascinating. Fumbling with the latch, Spock almost missed Stepmother's response.

"My own observations support a separate conclusion, husband. Yet for the peace of our society, we must work toward nothing less than the Kolinahr."

Though neither Vulcan raised their voice, their responses began to clip the ends of the other's arguments. "Surely it is too early to assume this."

"I assume nothing, husband. There is a deep well of emotion in him."

"As there is in every Vulcan."

Spock finally understood the mechanism of the latch, and it clicked open. "Not in every Vulcan, Sarek. Once, perhaps. But what you or I consider to be emotion is not what is kept within the mind of Spock."

"Clarify."

"As in everything, Spock has his Vulcan strength; but can his will ever master the strength of his feelings? Even then, would it be the full control of the true-blooded Vulcan, or an outward control, one that can hide from the senses of others, not even a prickle upon an adept's skin? And yet the emotions will still be there, his outer mask a lie. A lie cannot be held indefinitely. If his control is not real, he will break." She paused in her speech. Hand partway into the box, Spock did not dare to breathe. "As Hakaus't'kae, I can tell you this is an actual possibility. Every time I meld with him and seek to exert control, the more violently his mind reacts. Our work is far from done, and my fellow mind-healers agree. If we teach him the means of control without melding, and molding his mind into the correct shape as I have been attempting for the past months, it could be a false control. At any moment he could become dangerous either to himself or to others. Our warning, perhaps, will be given only by subtle physical changes- such as the quickened beating of his heart."

Slowly, Father clasped his hands behind his back. "…It is ironic."

Stepmother tilted her head. "Husband?"

"In ancient times, Humans believed the seat of emotion to be in the heart."

"The heart is merely an organ."

"As is the brain. But I will suffer no damage to my son's by premature suppositions."

"I did not mean now, my husband. If Spock is able to attain the heights of Vulcan thought by the time he would be ready to enter the Vulcan Science Academy – and if he, indeed, is capable of entering it – soon thereafter he may begin the process of Kolinahr."

"That is still young. To attempt the Kolinahr before his Time would be most unwise."

"It would be necessary. Providing he is capable of true control."

"If he is not?"

"Then preventative measures must be taken. Surely your logic leads you to the same conclusion, Sarek?"

"It does."

"As ever, logic leads us to agreement. You thus agree that the emotional attachment Lady Grayson's belongings might trigger would be detrimental to the development of Spock's mind and control thereof?"

"The logic of my earlier statement is sound. We still cannot predict the full development of Spock's mind."

"I admit, I do not know how a necklace will help Spock on his journey through the Kolinahr."

"Perhaps not the jewelry. The books, however, might prove useful when he takes courses in galactic comparative literature during his tenth year."

"The books seem the least helpful of all. Editions centuries old, in disrepair, most of which are not even in Standard. A single PADD can hold thousands of books, all in the definitive editions with proper commentary and analysis." In the silence that followed this pronouncement, Spock surreptitiously felt around the box, searching for a necklace, maybe, that belonged to Mother. The first object that came to hand, however, was much larger than that, rectangular, and when he tried to lift it, heavy. How could he remove it without anyone noticing?

"As I have inherited tapestries and other symbols of my mother's clan," said Brother, who stood from his chair to speak, "it is only logical for Spock to at least inherit the books. They may not be efficient, but as they contain the knowledge and cultural inheritance of her species, they could well be considered the objects of her clan."

Stepmother turned her gaze on Brother, eyes ever Vulcan. "Your mind has been affected by Lady Grayson's Human influence, Sybok. Do you feel an emotional attachment to the books that she read to you as a child?"

Brother's eyebrows dipped toward his nose and his lips set into a thin line. He opened his mouth to reply, but Father spoke first. "You are wise beyond your years, Sybok," he said.

Stepmother's head snapped back toward Father. "Sybok's logic is flawed, husband. It may be prudent for me to look into his mind as well. Overexposure to the habits of Humans during his formative years-"

"How is my logic, wife? Have I been overexposed to the habits of Humans?"

The two Vulcans stared at each other, the children watching with rapt attention. It was an accusation, nearly an admonishment. At length Stepmother replied, "Your logic is flawless, Sarek."

"Sybok is not in need of your services as Hakaus't'kae."

"Surely you did not miss the emotion provoked in him by my query?"

"I did not. The books, therefore, will be donated to the Multicultural Museum as the relics of Human knowledge that they are. You cannot deny this."

"I have no reason to do so. The matter is settled." She turned, and in haste Spock took the object out of the box so that she would not see his hand searching through Mother's things. He need not have worried; Stepmother swept out of the room without deigning to grace the box – or Spock – with one more glance.

After she was gone, Father stooped to lift the large container easily in his arms. Brother went to stand in front of him. "Father, do not give away the books."

"You have been neglecting your meditation, Sybok," Father replied evenly.

"I find in it neither logic nor peace." They stood in silence for a while, until Brother continued, "Logic is the way of Vulcans, but Vulcans follow not the way of logic."

"That is wordplay."

"It is not. Goodnight, Father." Then Brother, too, left the room- he, however, did look at Spock before leaving, a mere pause at the door.

Father stared after him. At length, he peered down at Spock, who was clutching his prize to his chest. It was a book, weathered and ancient, practically as big as his torso. There was no way that Father could ignore the fact Spock had taken it from the box of Mother's things. Things that, he understood, were being taken away.

But Father, quite illogically, said nothing.

-o-

It was night.

It was too early for Father and Stepmother to be abed, but too late for Brother to be awake, and even later for Spock. But Spock could not sleep; the book he had hidden called to him. The rest of his Mother was locked away, behind locks he was destined never to open, but this, this was his. Yet he could not read it.

It was frustrating to recall the letters and their shapes so clearly, but not know the sounds they made. It was like seeing someone's mouth move but not hearing them sing. One could not open a book and not gain knowledge. And he _wanted_.

At this time Stepmother would be meditating in the garden. Spock slipped from his bed, lifted the heavy book from the back of his closet, and clutched it to his chest. Slowly, so slowly, he opened his door and peeked around the corner. The light from Father's study shone brightly down the hall. He made a dash for the room, pattering madly in bare feet lest Stepmother should open her eyes and see his shadow flitting from window to window. At the threshold he stopped.

Father sat at his desk, low-energy ambient lighting spread evenly across his workspace, but causing his form to appear a shadow, a shadow become solid. His back was straight, but his head was bent slightly forward over his papers: real paper, thick, expensive, color soft like mellow cream. The ink was black. Spock could not see in what language Father wrote, not from this angle, but he could see the neat black lines and the elegant movement of his hand cradling the pen. Father paused in his writing, and brought the old-fashioned utensil to rest softly against his lips in thought. This image of Father was marked more indelibly in Spock's memory than any other.

"Speak your mind, Spock." Father had given no indication he had been aware of his son's presence.

"I cannot understand Mother's book," he replied. Somewhat loosening his grip on the object, he again eyed the title, with strange consonant clusters and vowel markings as one rarely saw in Standard. "It is unreadable." He did not know why, but his lower lip began to protrude. Spock did not stop this; it seemed to express how he felt.

Father finally turned to face him. He regarded him silently for a moment, and then held out his hand. Spock tried to quell the fear that rose within him- would Father try to take the book away? Was Spock not worthy of this gift, this precious possession? But Father did not take the book, instead did something he had not done since Spock was two: he picked him up cautiously by the waist, and set him on his lap.

Careful not to touch Spock's skin, Father gently took the tome from his hands and set it over his writing. The long, elegant fingers of one hand brushed over the faded silver lettering, and came to rest on the spine. "It is not unreadable, Spock. It is an old Terran language called German."

Spock sneakily placed his right hand on the other edge of the book. Compared to his own, Father's hand was much larger, slightly darker, infinitely stronger. "Is that what Mother spoke?"

"It is one of the many languages she spoke." Father took a light hold of Spock's cloth-clad arm, coaxing him to remove his grip on the book. Then with one finger, he pointed at the first letter of the title, and ran it underneath the words as he said them. "_Kinder- und Hausmärchen_," he said. "_Tales for the House and Children_. That is the title." His finger moved down to indicate the smaller script near the bottom. "_Brüder Grimm_. The Brothers Grimm. They are the scholars who collected the stories, and shaped them into their own."

"_Kinder- und Hausmärchen_,_ Kinder- und Hausmärchen_," Spock chanted, wondering at how his tongue tripped over the words. "_Brüder Grimm_."

"Satisfactory," complimented Father. Ever so gently he opened the front cover and passed by the first three pages, all either uselessly blank or illogically repeating the title. Then the next page was turned, old and yellow, with figures etched delicately in faded black ink. They were not the solemn images of Vulcans in contemplation, but of Humans with rounded ears and arched eyebrows, women who did not plait their hair but let it flow freely, men with faces twisted in- sadness? anger? happiness? Spock did not know the expressions, many and varied. Even stranger, there were Terran animals, animals for which Spock had no name, animals small, four-legged, round, with large Human eyes and mouths that strove to form words. "It is the first tale," Father explained, noticing Spock's fascination. "The illustration tells the story in a series of tableaux."

Spock continued to study the image. "I do not understand the story," he admitted.

"It must first be read." Again, Father pointed, and this time it was toward the bold letters at the top of the adjacent page. "_Der Froschkönig oder der eiserne Heinrich_." It means, "_The Frog-King, or Iron Henry_." He paused, thoughtfully. "It begins every edition of the collection. It is always the first tale."

Still Spock did not understand, but he remembered what Father had just told him: it must first be read. Using the sounds he learned from the titles, he attempted: "In…den…"

"In den alten Zeiten," began Father, softly, deeply, voice rumbling up and down Spock's spine, "wo das Wünschen noch geholfen hat…"

_In the old times, when wishing still helped…_


	2. Chapter One: The Prince

It's Like the Old Terran Fairy Tales

Chapter One:

_The Prince_

**Rating:** PG-13.

**Warnings:** For this chapter, canonical genocide and physical violence, and brief mentions of mental/psychological abuse.

**Disclaimer:** _Star Trek_ is not mine, alas. No profit is being made.

**A/N:** In this chapter, quotes are specifically taken from _Der Froschkönig/The Frog King_.

-o-

_Near the castle of the king lay a great, dark wood, and in the wood under an old linden was a spring: whenever it was very hot, the king's child went out into the wood and sat herself on the edge of the cool spring:_

The Head of Council for the Vulcan Science Academy looked stoically down on Spock, but the gaze was piercing and curious. Spock wondered what further thing he could have to say; his acceptance to the Academy had already been announced. Traditionally, the hearing was over. Vulcans were not often untraditional. "It is truly remarkable, Spock," the councilman said, "that you have achieved so much despite your disadvantage."

"Indeed," replied Spock's stepmother, also on the panel. "His Human heritage has been the cause of much unrest and distraction, to his peers as well as to his family."

The other ministers on the council turned to her and nodded. They were scientists, processing and filing away this new information. Vulcans did not lie; his stepmother's word was fact. From their high seats on the panel, the council peered down at Spock, transforming him from student to specimen.

Spock, for a moment, did not know how to react. This was to be his moment of triumph, the proof of his worthiness. "My Human heritage will cause no disruptions to the work of the Academy," he said.

"Indeed it will not," his stepmother agreed with him, a rare occurrence, "as I have already spoken with the adepts. Now that Spock will attend the Academy, he will begin to study for the Kolinahr."

The silence was heavy in the heat of the room as the council processed this announcement with interest. Spock was already familiar with three of the members; his mixed biology was of great interest to the scientists of the planet. The scholarly intensity in their eyes reminded him of the many days and nights spent being studied in laboratories and lecture halls, his face in the grips of their fingers as they attempted to unveil his every secret. The memories brought unbidden physical responses he struggled to control. Wide pupils, trembling hands. The frantic rush of his pulse as his heart beat a faster rhythm. No, they could not do this anymore. _Spock _was to be the scientist now, not the subject.

"We look forward to seeing what Spock can achieve in his time at the Academy," said the Head of Council, and to Spock there seemed to be an unduly significant weight to the words.

"Council, ministers, I must decline." The sentence left him without conscience thought, but with it, his surety grew. "Thank you for your consideration."

"Then why did you come before this council today, Spock?" asked his stepmother. "Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?"

"The only emotion I wish to convey is gratitude," he replied.

A pause.

"Live long and prosper."

_And whenever she was bored she took a golden ball, threw it high into the air, and caught it again; this was her favorite toy._

The most intriguing thing about Terran literature, Spock mused, was that the more fantastical it was, the closer to life it seemed to come: epic journeys, gods and goddesses, imaginary creatures, New Worlds, Old Worlds, utopias and dystopias – Religion, Myth, and Fairy Tale.

He was no stranger to literary devices; Spock understood the irony in living on Earth in order to escape the stories its society had created. But Terran tales often took place in some far off land. To carry out the rest of one's life in the place where they were, indeed, merely stories was far preferable to living in the place where they were real.

The Vulcan people had their own tales. But where the Terran oral tradition had splintered over time according to class and culture, mores and memory, the Vulcan oral tradition was one. Vulcans did not differentiate between Religion, Myth, and Fairy Tale. All stories held the ancient rites of the people, the remoteness of their violent past, the hints at creatures and magic that once had been, but were now lost. Eidetic memories prevented the stories from changing once they had been told. Logic prevented historical figures from evolving into gods or heroes. New tales – songs, novels, poems – were unique, and not retellings of that which is already known. This lack of deviation from the norm meant one very important thing: Vulcan tales were history.

Vulcan tales were true.

Only half of Spock was Vulcan.

His escape from the hot desert sands of Vulcan to the cool mutable waters of Earth had seemed, at the time, the only solution, and for the most part Spock did not dwell upon his choice. The Vulcan Science Academy was touted as the best learning institution in the galaxy, but at Starfleet there was always new knowledge, and not only from within the labs. New data, new information was constantly streaming in from foreign ships and far off planets, and Spock learned, and he worked, and he grew.

For seven long years Spock lived thus: student, officer, teacher. He was efficient, his work always satisfactory, but when alone in his quarters and alone in his head, he doubted his decision. Spock could not help but believe, with one tiny portion of himself, that he had not escaped the Story but was in exile; and that someday, which would begin like any other, a hunter would crash through the woods, eye on his quarry – a nimble deer or thrashing boar – and chase Spock out. Deliverance, tragedy, or both? He could not say.

It is not that he failed to attempt a normal, Terran life; there was one Human at the SFA, in particular, that was his friend. Nyota Uhura was her name, and Spock could not help but be fascinated by her. Yet when her eyes grew soft, and she spoke in languages long dead, he thought of how his mother must have been and shied away. How different would he be with Amanda Grayson's influence? What sort of Vulcan? What sort of Human? Impossible to know, there was no use considering it, and it caused him pain.

But whenever his thoughts so strayed, Spock would fold his legs beneath him to meditate. Before shutting his eyes and slipping into trance, he would gaze out the window, drinking in the sight of the stars. And catching sight of Vulcan's golden sun, he would briefly wish to speak with his father.

_Now once upon a time it so happened that the princess's golden ball that she'd thrown so high did not fall into her little hand, but went past it to hit the ground and rolled right into the water. The princess followed it with her eyes but the ball vanished, and the spring was deep, so deep, that one could not see its bottom._

And so it was; after seven long years of exile on Earth Nero came hunting him from another world, and Spock found himself back home. But what is the return home for a child of the Story? A mother buried, sibling long since run away, and a distant father under the watchful gaze of a stepmother.

Still, Spock may have found it within himself to create his own plotline, for the sight of his father in the dark cavern was hope unlooked-for and he thought to take him by the hand. Yet the eyes of his stepmother were just as powerful even for lack of their expression. Instead he beckoned the council to follow, and his father ran at his side. When they again reached the open air, the Vulcans stood stoically as they watched their planet crumble, no reaction but for the two further steps his father took, maybe disbelieving, maybe wanting, perhaps merely seeking a better view. But then he turned to look at Spock, look him right in the eye, and there, there, THERE was emotion, a grief, a longing, a _wish _–

And gone.

Spock appeared in the transporter room of the _Enterprise_, arm outstretched. It was, of course, too late; it had been too late from the moment Spock chose not to take his own father's hand. When he found the strength to stumble toward the nearest window, he saw the black hole where Vulcan once was, and despite the fact the ship was pulling away from it the hole grew bigger, and darker, and deeper, and it matched the ache in his gut.

_She looked around herself to see where the voice was coming from, and there she espied a frog, whose fat, ugly head was stretching out of the water. "Oh, it's you, you old water-slapper," she said. _

With the death of his father, everything snapped into place. There was no escaping the Story, Spock now knew. What was left was only to live it; he need but perform his given role. So Spock sat down in the captain's chair, rightful heir to the throne, and gave his orders with command and grace. His subjects nodded, silent and dutiful, but for one.

James Kirk: neither subject nor officer, failed student and soldier. Loud, emotional. Irritant of Spock's ear, quaking his careful calm. Questioning his rule. Demanding equal voice, equal status, equal command. It was Spock's to give, but not the Human's due.

"_Wait! Wait!" cried the frog, "Take me with you, I can't run like you can!" But what did it help him, yelling his _croak croak_ as loud as he could in her wake? She gave it no heed, hurried home, and had soon forgotten all about the poor frog, who again had to climb back into the spring._

This was not the way of the Story. It had run its course, and Spock was to rule. Spock alone knew the way of the universe. He alone had that power.

So he utilized it.

Marooned on Delta Vega, Kirk was no longer his problem.

_On another day, as she'd sat herself at the table with the king and all the courtiers and ate from her small golden plate, something came – slip slap, slip slap – creeping up the marble steps, and when it had reached the top and knocked on the door, and called out, "Princess, youngest one, open up for me!" she ran, wanting to see who could be outside; but as she opened up, there sat the frog in front of her. Upon seeing him she hastily slammed the door, sat once again at the table, and was very afraid._

"Keptin!" Chekov announced into the tense silence that had fallen on the bridge. "We're detecting unauthorized access to a water turbine control board!"

Spock nodded at the ensign. "Bring up video."

"Aye," said Chekov, swinging his chair back around. The young Russian's fingers flew over his station, and almost immediately live footage popped up on the main viewscreen. The one who had accessed the computer was no stranger: it was Kirk. He had somehow, quite impossibly, returned to the ship despite its travelling at warp speed.

No. This was wrong. This was Spock's Story; not Kirk's. There was no room for Kirk. Spock had suffered the loss of his mother, his father, his home; his was the due of the ship and the right to command. Spock did not want it, he had _never_ wanted it, for he was Vulcan and did not want, he was Human and did not believe: but the Story had taken its toll, a force greater than his will, and so he did want, and he must believe.

Spock pressed the comm button that connected directly to Security on the armrest of the captain's chair. "Security, this is Acting Captain Spock. Seal the engineering deck and bring me the intruders in turbine station three."

There was no role for Kirk to play.

"Set phasers to stun."

_And so she grasped him with two fingers, carried him upstairs and set him in a corner. But when she lay in bed, he came crawling up and said, "I'm tired, I want to sleep as good as you: lift me up there, or I'll tell your father." At that she was bitterly angry, picked him up, and threw him with all her might against the wall. "Now you can rest, you nasty frog."_

"We are travelling at warp speed. How did you manage to beam aboard this ship?"

"You're the genius, you figure it out." Kirk smiled a strange smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Spock had command; he was in control. "As acting captain of this vessel, I order you to answer the question."

"Well I'm not telling, _Acting Captain_," Kirk drawled.

Wrong. Anomaly. Unacceptable. He had ejected Kirk from the ship, and that was both proof and protection of the Story. As the current leader of this crew, he knew he had responsibilities. Who was the man that beamed aboard with Kirk? What technology had allowed them to do it? How did it affect the situation with the Romulans (or how had it)? But Spock had lost both his home and his father in one fell swoop; he could not allow the Story to be taken from him as well. His eyes were only for Kirk. "You _will_ answer _me_."

"What is it with you Spock? Hm?" Kirk asked, ignoring Spock's command. There was something, _something_ Spock was missing. What was he not doing right? How was he not fulfilling the duty that was demanded him? Kirk's eyes gleamed, and he took a step closer. "Your planet was destroyed, your father murdered. You're not even _upset_."

Upset? No. Spock was not upset. He felt no emotion. He was merely an empty vessel, continuing because he must. "If you are presuming that these experiences in any way impede my ability to command this ship, you are mistaken." It was, in fact, better than before. He knew his place.

"Doesn't it? Your _father_ just _died_." Kirk laughed, and it was sickening. "But maybe you're right. Maybe it doesn't matter. You're just a couple of Vulcans. You don't feel, yeah? He probably didn't even care when your mother died, so why would he care if he died himself? It's not like he was leaving anybody behind who would grieve him once he'd gone."

"Jim-" started Dr. McCoy, grabbing at his arm, but Kirk shoved him off.

Something yawned inside Spock, and he noted with some surprise that the gaping hole he'd felt earlier was still there, clawing, gnawing, drawing in his body, his mind, imploding. He fought to breathe. "You will- cease-"

"It must not even _compute_ for you!" Kirk shouted, and his warm breath gusted across Spock's face, so close were they. "The death of billions and the death of your father, all the same, pointless, they meant nothing, you'll forget them. But who cares? You never loved him. And he never loved you."

The implosion inside Spock twisted, writhed, and before he could stop it, it turned inside out and began to explode. As the fire ran through him he _knew_, Spock gasped at the force of it, the realization that there could be no resolution without violence. He had experienced hardship, and loss, but he must still do something for himself. There could be no ending if there was no death, and by himself meted out. It meant he must eschew every value that made him at once Vulcan and Human, but the Story would have its way. In order to keep himself, Spock must destroy himself.

And destroy Kirk.

The moment the fire lapped at the base of his brain he snapped. He picked Kirk up bodily and threw him against the nearest console. The Human grunted and stood back up, but had no chance to defend himself. Spock was there, punching, slashing, chopping. Kirk moved to block his attack, but did little more than blunt the force of Spock's movements. It was all so quick; no one interfered; there was no one else in the room. It didn't take long for Kirk to slow. He left himself vulnerable and Spock pounced. Grabbing the Human's neck with one hand he pushed him back onto the console, cracking the frame. It was the first prolonged contact with a Human Spock had ever had. Kirk let out a final gasp before Spock squeezed his airway shut.

_Yet when he fell down he was no frog, but a prince with beautiful, friendly eyes._

The two locked eyes. Spock's: dark, and fathomless. Kirk's: bright, and desperate.

Spock's mirrored a hole in space, a planet that had been and was no more, an immeasurable loss.

Kirk's reflected blue skies and bluer water, tears and emotions acknowledged and flowing freely, an incalculable grief.

The Human's eyes were not full of desperation for his life. They were full of desperation for _Spock_. As soon as that thought broke through, he perceived the feelings pouring from Kirk's skin into his bare hand. A deluge of anger, of horror, of misery. But not sympathy, no.

Empathy.

How was that possible? Spock removed his hand and examined the palm, expecting to see the answer written in its lines and whorls. He barely registered Kirk coughing and crumbling to the floor, nor Dr. McCoy running to kneel next to him. Spock was still, and silent. How was that possible?

He heard a dim croaking in the background. "I'm fine Bones, I'm fine."

And then suddenly Spock's vision was filled with the doctor's face, pinched with emotions, emotions Spock did not bother attempting to identify. His lips were moving, mouthing words Spock did not bother attempting to understand. Empathy. There was someone else feeling _exactly _what he was feeling. Spock pulled out of the mire in his mind, and everything reasserted itself.

I am not the only one who feels.

This is not my Story.

The Story is not the universe.

There is no Story.

I have not believed in the Story since being a child.

And he had not. And yet, since his return to Vulcan and the subsequent disaster, he had believed in it again. A flight of fancy, the crutch of a child whose mind was constantly under attack and needed a reason why. Illogical.

"_Spock_!"

Spock blinked, and his hearing returned at full volume. He could now understand McCoy; he had been saying Spock's name. He hid his shaking hand behind his back. "Doctor, I am unfit for duty. I hereby relinquish command due to the fact that I have been emotionally compromised. Please mark the time and date in the medical log."

The turbolift doors opened and Spock gratefully entered its sanctuary. He needed to meditate. There was no Story.

And no Vulcan sun to lock onto.


	3. Chapter Two: A Father and His Son

It's Like the Old Terran Fairy Tales

Chapter Two:

_A Father and His Son_

**Word Count:** This chapter, a little over 5,000.

**Rating:** PG-13, for graphic images, and some heavy concepts, I suppose.

**Warnings:** In this chapter, there's discussion about the death and dying of children, euthanasia, terminal illnesses, and deaths of parents.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek, much to my chagrin. That's right. No profit here.

-o-

"…_But help me in my need, and forgive me for the evil I'm committing against you." _

_She answered, "My dear father, do with me what you will; I am your child." Thereupon she laid down both her hands and allowed them to be cut off. _

~Das Mädchen ohne Hände/The Girl with No Hands

-o-

"We lost another one, Doctor."

Leonard held out his hand for the file that Nurse Chapel was extending him. "Who was it?"

"Supik, 14:56 ship standard time. Doctor M'Benga called it." The nurse's voice was steady, but her eyes flicked to the side as she commented, "The boy was seven."

Seven. _That's Joanna's age_. Pushing the thought of his daughter out of his mind, Leonard nodded- that's all he could do. What was there to say? Most of the Vulcan children weren't going to survive the telepathic backlash of their planet's destruction. Those who still had living family members could anchor their minds, but the rest had shredded shields. While it was obvious that they wouldn't be able to keep anything out, the medical staff was at a loss to explain why that meant they couldn't keep their minds _in_. Not even the Vulcan elders could say why their sanity was slowly leaking away with no barrier to stop it. What had Eddings said the other day? _They should've died with the rest of their planet!_ _They're goners, and we all know it!_ Doing his best to clamp down on the upswell of anger that shot through him at the thought, Leonard had to admit…it was getting harder to disagree.

The sound of troubled muttering broke his reverie, and Leonard glanced down at the biobed to his right. Captain Pike was sleeping there, and like everyone else on the ship, he wasn't dreaming about puppies and rainbows. Dr. McCoy looked back at Chapel. "I'll add it to the pile," he told her, indicating the PADD she'd handed him. He didn't need to elaborate; she knew he meant the long list of those who had died on the _Enterprise_, both civilian and crew. "I should get started signing all these anyway."

"Take a rest, Doctor," the nurse answered, though not in the manner of someone who expected him to obey. "We won't reach Earth for another week. One of the doctors from the relief ships can look after everything for awhile."

Leonard shook his head. "I've put it off long enough. If you need me, I'll be in the office." Unspoken: _there is no rest here_. Pike groaned as if to prove the point.

Chapel pursed her lips but didn't gainsay him. "I'm going back to the children," she told him, "even though T'Ral said we can't touch them." If psi-null Humans were to so much as brush their fingertips against them, there would be nothing from stopping the surge of emotions from invading their already wounded minds. Nurse Chapel wouldn't be able to do much of anything at all, but most of the staff felt that being in the same room with them was at least doing _something_.

"Go on, then," murmured Leonard. Chapel turned and left. There was nothing else to be said.

Dr. McCoy continued to stand next to Captain Pike for awhile, gently taking his wrist in sure hands and counting his pulse. It may have matched the readings of the surrounding machinery, but the instruments couldn't show a man how it _felt_. Pike's pulse was steady but it wasn't willful. It hadn't remembered its purpose yet; Leonard could tell. That's how he knew that despite the (dubious) rest the captain had been getting for the past week, he couldn't wake up Pike.

The doctor sighed. If he wanted to make headway on all the death certificates, he would need the signature of the captain of the ship. Thankfully, this vessel had two. He'd have to call Jim.

In defiance of his exhaustion, Leonard set a quick pace back to the CMO's office. He felt the familiar brief bout of nausea as he crossed the threshold – he'd been using this office since Vulcan, but it was still Dr. Puri's. The _Enterprise_ had been preparing for its maiden voyage weeks before Vulcan's distress call, so its Chief Medical Officer had already begun to make a mark on the room. There was a carved ivory elephant standing on the desk, a partially unpacked box of rare medical books that Leonard had shoved into a corner, and there was even a picture of whom he assumed were Puri's two grown children with their own families. The plate bearing his name was still on the door.

All of Sickbay had a hush to it these days, in vast contrast to the violent chaos of the week before, but there was still the beeping of instruments, the soft discussion of doctors and nurses, the muffled moans of the sick and suffering. When the door to the office hissed shut, all of that was cut off. Silence, blessed silence.

Leonard slumped down behind the wide desk and turned the monitor toward him. "Computer, location of Acting Captain Kirk." If Jim wasn't in his room, Leonard wouldn't be waking him up by contacting him- and goodness knew he hadn't been getting much sleep lately.

The computer whirred to life. "Acting Captain Kirk – is in – Engineering," it said in an oddly mechanical fashion. Leonard shivered, reminded of how many of their computer systems were down as they crawled back to Earth. The eerie cadence was the result of a quickly written program to reinstate voice commands.

Instead of hailing him through that system, Leonard took out his personal comm to text. It was on his own orders that Jim would have to answer this way; getting choked three times in one day, Jim was lucky not to have a crushed larynx. Damned if Leonard was going to give him permission to talk. Not like Jim ever followed his orders, despite claiming to be his best friend.

He sent a message to ask if Jim had any time to spare. He received a response almost immediately: _on my way_.

There was only one thing to do – well – Leonard thought a little whiskey wouldn't go amiss, but since it wasn't necessary – he got up and went to the filing cabinets built into the wall. He opened the drawer that contained the only official paper documents in Sickbay: birth certificates, honorable discharge from the service due to permanent injury, and death certificates. There were a hundred or so forms of the latter, all if not more than a CMO would be expected to need for a full five-year mission. They'd been on the _Enterprise_ for a little over a two weeks. Leonard pulled out the whole stack.

He sat back at the desk and sorted the files of the crewmembers and civilians who had died under his care. Like Supik. McCoy found an ink pen from Puri's top desk drawer, took the first certificate off the stack, and began to fill it out.

**Planet of Birth:** _Vulcan_

Damn. No one would ever be able to claim that again. The thought was surreal.

**Age (Standard years):** _seven_

Young. So young. And somehow, to Leonard, that thought was worse.

-o-

"They should've died with the rest of their planet!" Eddings yelled. "They're goners, and we all know it!"

Sickbay ground to a halt at the nurse's outburst. Her chest was heaving, having run out of the room where the Vulcan children were kept, and her fists were clenched at her sides. She marched right up to Leonard. "How long, Doctor?" she asked lowly, threateningly. "How long are we going to sit here and watch them die?"

"Remember your job, Nurse," he snapped. "You know the answer to that."

Eddings bristled. "I know my job. It's to help people get better. And failing that, to- to end their suffering."

At her words, Leonard grew instantly cold. He put down the hypospray he was about to fill for a patient, and faced her fully. "Stand down, Nurse. That's a warning."

Eddings's hands were shaking, but she fastened them firmly to her hips. "No. Not until you do something about it."

The rest of the staff gave up pretending to work and the conscious patients stared avidly from their beds. Leonard struggled not to shout. "Tell me something, Eddings. You have a degree in nursing, don't you?"

"Of _course_ I do."

"Then you had your time in the peds ward. Children get sick. It doesn't change a damn thing! So pull yourself together."

The nurse growled in frustration, tugging at her hair. She whirled to face her coworkers, who were watching her with various gazes: supportive, angry, scared. "I can't be the only one," she half-accused, half-pleaded. Some tore their eyes away.

Leonard examined their reactions closely. It wasn't more than a couple weeks ago that a blast had ripped through the ship, causing equipment to short circuit in a sterile and patientless Sickbay, spewing sparks and fire, killing two nurses and an orderly before anyone could even get to their feet. A man got to see some mighty strange injuries at Starfleet Academy – not to mention some pretty gruesome pictures in textbooks – but that couldn't prepare anyone for the sound of the screaming, the sight of classmates covered in their friends' blood, the metallic scent of the ship's guts spilling out of the ceiling and mixing with the stench of charred flesh. _War_, his mind whispered, and never had a word seemed so ugly.

But not one member of the medical staff had complained, not one. They handled regenerators and assisted in surgery and cleaned bandages and hell, wiped their patients' asses when they needed to, and if they ever broke down and cried it was on their own time. They'd had the full medical training for their respective positions, after all, and every single one of them had watched people die. But this….this was different. This wasn't a hospital, and they weren't on Earth. One of them was bound to break.

Eddings trembled so hard at their silence, he thought she would shake apart and dissolve, piece by piece. Leonard clenched and unclenched his hands. This needed to be resolved now. "Ain't anyone gonna answer her question?" he asked gruffly, his accent thicker with irritation. "Anyone agree with her? I'm listening."

M'Benga was the first to speak. "No," he said hesitantly. "I don't agree. But…"

"_But_," prompted Leonard.

"I studied for a few months on Vulcan. Most of you know that." The young doctor swallowed. "Their minds…their minds are incredible. People think their control is just repression, but it's not like that at all. It's knowing yourself. _Understanding_ yourself. They have true introspection; they can stop the outpouring of emotion not only because they can recognize the chemicals producing it, but because they know why it gets produced in the first place. An adult Vulcan doesn't have the confusion of a Human, the uncertainty, the crumbling relationships and the midlife crises. Not when they have the ability to see themselves so clearly.

"But children…they don't have that ability. I guess they're like Humans in that way; still haven't figured themselves out. The telepathic links they form with their parents and other close adults aren't just about building relationships. It's their first introduction and best guidance to control. Without those links, those children in there are deaf, dumb, and blind in a way we can't even imagine." He ran a hand over his face, closed his eyes for a moment. "T'Ral is one of the most celebrated mind-healers in all of Vulcan. We're lucky to have her on the ship. I've watched her with them, attempting to meld. It isn't working. She's been in contact with every other surviving mind-healer she can reach. So have I, and they all agree with T'Ral. The parentless children on other ships are having the same problem. The best we can do is-" M'Benga cut himself off. Then he sighed, and addressed Leonard directly. "The best we can do is nothing at all. And it seems, for them, a fate worse than death."

Leonard crossed his arms. "But you're willing to keep trying."

The other doctor nodded firmly. "With every waking moment."

"I hate it, too," Chapel agreed, voice loud and clear. "But I used to do my summer internships at Lander and Wesley's." A couple of the others shuddered at the name of the most prestigious hospital for children with terminal illnesses. "I know my place." Chapel shot Eddings an icy glare.

"It's different, though," said Nurse Carlisle, shaking his head. "At L and Wes you could still talk with the kids, and play games, and hold them when they cried. You could tell a silly joke and make them smile. You could watch cartoons with them and make up stories and spill glitter all over the lounge. You could be _with_ them, and make them happy. At least up to the very end." Several others nodded at this, murmuring agreement.

"And we can't even _touch_ them," choked out Eddings. "I mean, do they even know we're there? Do they even know they're not alone?" This last was directed at M'Benga, who shrugged helplessly. She turned back to Leonard, getting angry again. "How much suffering is enough, Doctor? You're forcing them to live in _hell_. How can you watch them like that?"

Leonard dug his fingers into his own biceps. "We do what we have to."

"No!" she shouted. "I meant, how can _you_ stand there and do nothing? I know you have a daughter. What would you do if _she_ was the one dying in there?"

A couple people gasped as the blood drained from Leonard's face. "_Sylvia_!" Chapel hissed.

Eddings didn't spare her a glance. "I won't apologize," she said, tears trickling down her face.

Leonard was so angry he couldn't even scream. His breath caught in his throat and his muscles froze as the first wave of it washed over him. He swayed a little on his feet, but that jerked him back into motion. Taking in all his crew – resolutely ignoring the stares of the patients – Leonard walked to the middle of the large room. "Now I want you all to listen up," he said evenly, "and listen up good.

"This past summer I was down in Atlanta, working at the general hospital there. My patients were aliens, mostly, because of my Starfleet training, but I cared for some Humans, too. There was this one man who was sick. Very sick. Dying. Weight loss, no appetite, grey hair and wrinkles after a week of some real pain. You know the score. But it wasn't just the man who was suffering.

"His son, a grown man – not much older than any of you – was there to visit him all the time. He was a wreck. A lot of it was because he was losing a parent, and that brings up all sorts of feelings: loneliness, fear, abandonment. Maybe some of you know all about it, and for those that don't, I know you've seen it. But it was more than that, for this man's boy. See, his daddy was brilliant. One of the best scientific minds of his generation, the toast of Atlanta and the joy of the international community. He'd published books, lectured off-world, proven hundreds of theories and hell, disproved a few too. What's more, he didn't just know science. He knew art; he knew music. He knew economics and history without ever having properly studied the subjects, and growing up, his son could ask him anything and there wasn't one question his daddy didn't know the answer to. The boy'd looked up to him practically since the day he was born. And he was proud.

"For awhile, that man was still there, even confined to the hospital. He could smile and make the nurses laugh, discuss physics and politics, ruffle his son's hair when he looked too upset. Still, he was dying. If you'd met him even a couple months before, you wouldn't have recognized him by the end of the summer. He was only in his late fifties, but he looked more like ninety. His eyes were sunken in, his body skeletal. The fingers that could once coax tunes from a piano were now curled permanently like claws, rigored from the constant pain. His nails were yellow and his sweat smelt stale and he never seemed to close his mouth anymore, slack-jawed from the meds. That was bad enough. It's awful to see someone you love reduced to that, awful to watch a vibrant man turn weak. That's bad enough, believe me. But it got worse.

"That man, see, that _brilliant_, brilliant man began to lose his mind. And the son watched it happen. That was terrifying for him. It started out small: forgetting a detail or two, asking the same question twice in one hour. It escalated quickly enough. He forgot theorems and equations, couldn't follow the plotlines of the vids they watched together. His vocal inflection – and his behavior – became more childlike. One day, the son would tell him to eat all his food, and his father would meekly accept the small spoonfuls he fed him. The next day, when the son would tell him to eat all his food, he'd fly into a rage and knock things over with his stiffened limbs and curse everything from the stars to the picture of a boat hanging on the wall. And sometimes he would cry and say that there were spiders and shadows dripping from the ceiling, and why wouldn't anyone believe him?

"The pain got worse, too. The disease just kept progressing, and the man thrashed about so violently his wrists and ankles had to get cuffed to the bedframe. He'd scream and scream to let him go, to stop the pain, let him go home, the pain, the pain. In the brief moments of relief after they injected drugs, but before he passed out from them, he would beg his son to let him die.

"It was his son's turn to rage. With a daddy like that, he was no fool. He knew the reality of death and disease, just as well as anyone. But that didn't stop him from thinking it wasn't fair. Why now? Why his dad? He should have had at least one good century left, modern medicine being what it is, at least one century more of exciting experiments and brilliant findings and being a beacon of light for his son. Being his hero. And it was the son's turn to curse the stars, the stars which meant heaven was only a lie, because he couldn't do it. He couldn't let his father die. Whether or not that makes him a coward, I don't know. All I know was that it wasn't in his nature. It would rip something out of him, change him deeper, maybe, than just watching his father suffer. He knew the hospital staff, and even people all around the world were working their asses off to find a cure. It was only a matter of time before his dad would get better. Just a little longer, the son kept telling himself. Just a little longer.

"But you can only see a loved one like that for so long. There's only so many times you can hear your father sobbing for help like you're the parent, you're the responsible one, the all-knowing one, the one with the answers. For weeks the son endured it, soldiered past every tear and every yell and every hoarse plea. His anchor was his conviction, this _truth_, that killing was the very antithesis of his being, and he was right, so very right, in believing that his dad would get better. 'Kill me, please,' the father would beg. 'Please, son.' 'No daddy,' he would answer. 'Get some rest, now.' But his heart was breaking, see. It didn't happen all at once. Who knows when it started. It cracked and fissured and pierced his chest with tiny shards that got ground down, down, down by the tears his father shed. Until one day, the son's heart crumbled completely. 'Kill me, please,' his father said.

"The son wept. 'I can't, daddy. I don't know how.'

" 'You do know. And I'm sorry, my boy. I'm sorry it's you I have to ask. Help me, son. Help me. Help me! Help me.'

" 'I'll help you, daddy. I promise.' He kept his promise, too. That day, he finally gave permission to stop administering the food intravenously. They stopped pouring small trickles of water into his mouth. The first couple days there seemed to be no difference; his father writhed in pain and begged to die. 'Soon, daddy,' the son said now. 'Soon.'

"And soon…the lack of nutrients began to tell. The muscle spasms grew smaller. They removed the cuffs and pumped him full of morphine and nothing else. He opened his eyes less and less, and no longer asked for death. After five days, it found him. It was near the end of August.

"Have any of you been able to guess what disease this man had?" Leonard paused in his story, waiting for a response. The air vents rumbled in the background. "He had Demosthen's disease." People sighed and shook their heads; a few groaned. Eddings clasped a hand over her mouth. Leonard nodded. "I see you guys keep up on the news. A cure for Demosthen's disease was found last October. Less than two months, do you understand? If the son had waited, been a little stronger, a little firmer in his convictions, he could have saved his daddy, loss of his heart and loss of the world. That boy has to live with what he did, now. For more than a good, long century. He killed, and now he lives with blood on his hands, every single day."

Leonard let out a shaky breath and found he could barely keep his spine straight anymore. For a while – seconds, minutes, hours – no one said anything, and no one looked each other in the eye. At length, Leonard cleared his throat. "And that's why, Eddings, you, me, and everybody else on this staff aren't going to give up on those children. It might not be today, or tomorrow, or ten weeks from now, but we're going to figure it out. We are going to save those children. Is that understood, Nurse?"

Eddings straightened to her full height and wiped the silent tears from her face. "Aye, sir." She saluted him. The rest of the staff on duty snapped to attention and did the same.

"Good," he said. "At ease."

Leonard went back to the patient he had been helping before he was interrupted, administering the needed hypo and falling into the easy back and forth of medical conversation. Then he checked on the next patient, and the next, and it was only then he could walk back across the room and into Puri's office. Before the door had even fully shut behind him, he pressed back against the wall and slid to the floor.

"Daddy," he whispered, and choked back the tears.

-o-

The office door opened and Jim knocked a little tune against the frame. Leonard jumped, nearly adding a thick line of ink to the certificate he was trying to finish. Just because Jim wasn't allowed to talk didn't mean he still didn't damn well want to be noticed.

Leonard wanted to roll his eyes, but deemed it not worth the energy. "Come in and sit down, Jim." He pulled out another pen and set it pointedly on the opposite side of the desk.

Jim smiled at him, but it wasn't as bright as his smile usually was (no one had a full smile these days). Though there was still a lot of warmth communicated as he squeezed Leonard's shoulder before seating himself.

Leonard signed and dated the paper, and handed it to his friend. "Death certificates," he said.

All vestiges of good humor faded from Jim's face as he read about Supik. "Another one?" he croaked.

Leonard pursed his lips at the sentiment, but he was still Jim's doctor, dammit, and he could see the guilt in his eyes. As if their deaths were anything like Jim's fault. "I'm sorry, did you say something? I don't know. Maybe there's something wrong with my ears, because I know you wouldn't have just said something, not when you promised me _so_ sincerely."

His response had the desired effect. Jim's face again lit up with a smile. _YOU'RE NOT NICE_, he mouthed. Then he grew serious again, signing and dating the certificate. As Leonard started up the next one, Jim stood up and began rifling through the files. He almost asked what the hell Jim thought he was doing, but he'd find out sooner than he'd like anyway.

Sure enough, a folded piece of paper landed atop his work. It had a heart drawn on it, in which was written:

**BONEZ & JIM**

**4EVAH!**

This time, Leonard did roll his eyes. "Note passing. How archaic. And juvenile." Jim fluttered his eyelashes at him and clasped his hands over his chest. The doctor shook his head but unfolded the note- turns out he'd written on the back of a birth certificate. The note read: _At least give me an update while we do this, Bones._

"You just signed the update, Jim," he answered grimly. He continued filling out the next certificate.

Jim snatched back the note and scribbled something else, then shoved it under his nose. _You listed cause of death as 'severe psychological trauma'. Will Starfleet accept that?_

Leonard shrugged. "It's what T'Ral says. You know, she's the Hockus…Hoke…" He waved a hand. "You know, the mind-healer. Anyway, M'Benga studied on Vulcan for a while. He agrees with her. The kids' shields were too weak. They can't handle it, not without their familial bonds. The really little ones died almost instantly." Leonard set down his pen and rubbed his forehead. "T'Ral says some of the teenagers will make it. The older ones, mainly. No hope for anyone else, unless they have living relatives."

Jim nodded solemnly. _And the schools were evacuated first, so a lot of kids survived even if their parents didn't_, he wrote.

"Yeah," Leonard said. "Yeah."

They filled out and signed several more certificates – some for Vulcan adults, some for burned engineers, some even for those pulled into the vacuum of space, presumed dead. With each one finished, they both slumped further and further over the desk.

After a while, Jim scratched out another note. _So all Vulcans felt the same thing, the death of the planet and its people. It's just that some are older and have more mind discipline, so they can handle the trauma better?_

"What's your point, Jim?"

His friend huffed impatiently and scribbled some more. _Did people with really strong shields not get any backlash, or did they ALL feel it?_

"I'm a doctor, not a mind-reader. Spock obviously felt something, since he choked you, as I recall. But someone like T'Ral? Woman didn't even blink when she told me none of the kids were gonna make it."

Jim pulled the paper back and put his pen to it, but removed and replaced it several times, squirming in his chair. Finally he wrote, _But did he choke me because I goaded him, or because he __felt__ them all die?_

"Spock?" Leonard sighed. Just what he needed. "Is he performing all his duties well?"

Jim nodded.

"Then there's nothing to do, Jim. T'Ral said after the first couple days, all Vulcan adults started healing, mostly with meditation. No one's done anything stupid, and they don't need babysitting, alright?" Leonard brushed the note aside. He had enough people to look after in Sickbay without worrying about everyone else on the ship. "We've all lost friends."

"Then why didn't he ask to beam aboard?" Jim said hoarsely.

"Jim. Be a good little girl and use your notepaper."

"Bones!" He tried to make his voice demanding, but it came out breathy and harsh. He grabbed Leonard's hand to make him stop writing. "Why didn't he ask to beam aboard?"

Leonard jerked his hand free. "What in the hell are you on about, Jim?"

"When we went to go rescue Pike," he began, swallowing visibly to try and wet his throat, "he set the ship with the red matter on a collision course with Nero. Why didn't he beam out after? Why did he wait for me to ask?"

Slowly, Leonard shook his head. "I didn't know that."

"Has he come down here?"

"No, he hasn't. And stop talking," he snapped. When Jim opened his mouth to respond, Leonard talked over him. "Look. Lots of people do rash things when they're very upset. When they're 'emotionally compromised.' But as it is," Leonard sighed, "you let him go on the mission anyway. I'm sure he's got a better grip on himself now."

"Will you see him?"

"What did I say about talking?"

"Bones!"

Leonard threw up his hands. "Order him to see T'Ral and I'll have her give me her opinion. All right?"

Jim smiled, pointed at himself, drew a heart in the air, and then pointed at Leonard.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "You too."

-o-

"Spock."

Spock swiveled in the captain's chair to see Kirk walking onto the bridge. He stood immediately. "Captain," he acknowledged.

Kirk handed him a note – written on actual paper – and clapped him on the shoulder before taking his seat. When Spock looked at him questioningly, he gestured for him to open it.

Carefully, Spock unfolded the paper and read what Kirk had written.

_Commander Spock,_

_Many of the Vulcans in Sickbay are getting worse. I'd like for you to go down there and see T'Ral to check up on you and make sure your shields are okay. She'll report to Dr. McCoy. If you think this is fine, thanks for being a good sport. If you think it's illogical, humor me. Otherwise, consider it an order._

_JT Kirk, Acting Captain_

Spock refolded the note and handed it back to Kirk, who was watching him expectantly. "Now, Captain?" he asked. Kirk nodded. Spock snapped off a salute, and left the bridge at a brisk walk.

His hands gripped each other hard at the small of his back. Spock had clearly been given an ultimatum: disobey a direct order and put his career into further jeopardy, or…once again open his mind to the ministrations of his stepmother.


	4. Chapter Three: The Healers' Solutions

It's Like the Old Terran Fairy Tales

Chapter Three:

_The Healers' Solutions_

**Word Count:** This chapter, a little under 5,000. Fic in total: around 16,000.

**Rating:** PG-13, for heavy concepts and a fair bit of cussing. Oh, Bones.

**Warnings:** In this chapter, there's discussion about the death and dying of children, and mentions of mental/psychological abuse.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek. Laaaaame.

**A/N:** The quote at the end of the chapter is taken from the story _Die sieben Raben_ or _The Seven Ravens_.

-o-

_And envy and arrogance grew ever higher in her heart like a weed, such that she had no more rest, day or night. So she summoned a hunter and said, "Bring the child out into the woods; I no longer want to see it before me. You should kill it and bring me the lungs and liver as tokens."_

…_The chef had to cook them in salt, and the wicked woman ate them up…_

~Sneewittchen/Little Snow White

-o-

Spock entered Sickbay and did not hesitate; there was only one place that T'Ral would be. The medical section of the ship was divided into several parts, including labs, isolation, and the general hospital area. There was one room made especially for contagious viruses or infections that affected a large group of people who required quarantine. This was the room that housed the Vulcan children.

Even before he walked through the door, Spock could sense them.

Though at first it was difficult to discern, there were twelve of them left alive. Their unshielded consciousnesses were pooling out in a cloud around each bed, a singular, pulsing ache against Spock's skull. Their minds were unanchored and listless. It was as if they were swaying with the air currents of the room, but Spock knew that to be an illusion. It was…eerie. He felt his skin ripple into gooseflesh, and rather figured that this was what humans meant whenever they told ghost stories. That was almost what these children were, to those who were not psi-null: wayward consciousnesses unable to communicate in any meaningful fashion, drifting aimlessly with spikes of violence and desperation.

There was a reason that Spock had not come to see them before. No Vulcan memory came close to this phenomenon, which could be compared to a mutilation. What might he, a half-Human runaway who was himself struggling with control, do to help these children in pain? But still, with a morbid fascination Spock reinforced his shields and drew closer to the first bed. The girl was about nine or ten standard years of age, and her mind was ripped open.

There was a point of contention among Vulcan psychologists regarding the bonds a person develops throughout his or her life. The bond between spouses was the strongest connection. Then there were the bonds between parent and child, sibling, other relatives, and friends, all with varying degrees of strength. The former bond was the strongest and deepest simply because it was created with conscious thought, and was later reinforced with proximity and experience. The others grew slowly, weaving together over time in ways both telepathically tangible and not, as in the way Human friends could sometimes finish each other's sentences.

All of this was indisputable. The question was whether all Vulcans began to develop a bond with society as a whole, beginning at some indeterminate point in the womb. This would mean that with the advent of civilization, Vulcans had unwittingly begun to form a collective similar to (though on a much larger and more complex scale than) Terran ants or bees. Schools of fish. If this was so, a Vulcan could become independent of this bond once his shields were strong enough to block the constant buzz of psychic activity. Alternatively, as long as a Vulcan was alive, he was connected to the Vulcan race.

With the destruction of his home planet and the loss of billions of his species, Spock – and indeed, all Vulcan survivors – could attest that the latter was the case. Why, then, were the children not still connected to those who were alive, even if everyone close to them was now dead? Was it a simple matter of their not having been alive long enough for their societal bond to become strong?

Spock risked a closer examination. Careful not to touch her either psychically or physically, he stood at the edge of her mind. It was difficult to describe the state he found it in, being only on the outside, but it was almost like looking into a room through a broken window. The glass was shattered and shields gone. The curtains were in tatters, the thin tendrils trailing out toward him because the wind was blowing from the inside. Her sanity was slowly leaking away.

But the frame. The frame was still there.

The edges of her awareness were being constantly battered by those of the other children. There was no sense of control, nor even communion between the orphan minds. They pushed against each other in waves, an endless ebb and flow. Although…there was still that strange sensation that they were moving with the air currents.

Spock closed his eyes to sharpen his perception of their movement. Their minds were certainly wrapping against and around each other, strongly with those next to them, a different angle for those across, brushing and sliding against those on the other side of the room. Spock they ignored completely, as he had locked himself in: the eye in a silent, desperate storm.

And yet there was something, a tendency, a pattern, pushing and straining toward something, something, toward…someone.

Spock's eyes snapped open. With that realization, the psychic chaos that had overwhelmed him upon his entrance now retreated, allowing his other senses to come to the fore. He saw the Vulcan girl's lips and nailbeds were tinged a dull brown instead of a healthy green; he heard wounded-animal whimpers and strangled groans in a chorus of eleven voices, but not twelve-

The twelfth child was on the other side of the room, and she was being tended to by Dr. McCoy.

The Human was standing at the side of her bed, one hand on her wrist and eyes trained on the monitor in the wall. Spock would have objected at the physical contact, as the girl was obviously in no condition to have given permission. He would have, if he had not noticed the difference in her psychic aura.

Hopelessly intrigued, Spock moved toward them, slowly and quietly, until he was standing in front of the house of her mind and gazing through a broken window. Her consciousness was still drifting outside the parameters of her body, but it was not throbbing and stretching like all the others. It was swaying very slightly, and the torn curtains in the frame were still. Or not quite still: the fabric was patching itself back together, almost imperceptibly, stitch by tiny stitch. Glass was coalescing on the edges of the frame like a light frost.

If he had been any less schooled in the way of Surak, Spock's expression would have been one of surprise. As it was, he stared at the doctor for a further seven seconds until he removed his hand from the girl's wrist and sighed. "T'Ral told me not to touch them. But just because Humans don't have shields or psychic schooling doesn't mean we can't focus. There was nothing in my head but numbers. I was just counting her pulse."

Spock did not know how to respond. It was not the numbers that had calmed the child and made her soft crying cease.

Dr. McCoy pushed up the blue sleeves of his shirt and crossed his arms. "Were they saying anything?"

Humans had the most disquieting propensity for non sequiturs. "I do not understand. To whom do you refer?"

"The children." McCoy gestured around them. "I saw you come in. You had your eyes closed for a while. Thought you might've been listening."

It was a quaint Terran way of putting it, using the vocabulary of one sense in order to describe another for which there were no words. "Not as such," Spock responded. "I can sense them, certainly. The manner in which they are projecting is…unprecedented." He paused. "I was attempting to understand it."

"And do you understand?"

"Not fully."

The doctor nodded, accepting his explanation. "Well," he said, glancing down at the girl, "T'Ral will be here soon. I'll get out of your hair while you chat."

"That is not necessary, Dr. McCoy," came a voice from the door. The Human looked up from his patient and Spock turned to face the speaker. "I do not expect this to take long, and as I am ordered to report to you the results, it is only logical for you to stay." T'Ral walked toward them sedately as she spoke, wearing the same robes as she had when beaming aboard. Many Vulcans had only the clothes they had donned that last Vulcan morning. They were immaculate despite this.

"Hakaus't'kae," Spock said tonelessly.

"Spock," she answered, just as devoid of emotion. "I sense your shields are sound."

He did not respond, for she had merely stated fact.

"However, I have been told of your lack of control concerning the man who is now acting captain. It seems that you still have not learned the Vulcan way: never cause harm." She shook out her elegant sleeves in one movement, and clasped her hands in front of her waist. "Yet it is as I have predicted."

Spock did not move a single muscle, not even to blink, but he was hyperaware of the Human doctor's presence. To insult him in front of a colleague- but it was true. He had harmed. He had not only choked Kirk and ejected him from the ship, but he had caused the destruction of an entire Romulan crew. It did not matter that he had helped save lives on Earth. The way of Surak was simple and without exception.

T'Ral continued: "Tell me, Spock, are you in control now, or do you hide behind your shields? Is there nothing else you have learned from what you were taught?"

"I am in control, T'Ral."

"That remains to be seen." She started to circle him at a measured pace. "If you are, as you say, capable of Vulcan control, why did you relinquish command?"

Facing resolutely forward, he answered, "I was emotionally compromised."

"Precisely. Vulcans do not lie," she intoned. "You have said that you are in control, and yet that you were emotionally compromised. One of these is an untruth, Spock. Thus you are not Vulcan." She stepped until she completed her circle, her probing eyes once again capturing his.

Spock's command over his heartbeat began to fray. "There was no untruth."

"There is no disagreeing with logic, Spock," T'Ral said, steel voice cracking through the room like a whip. "We have all experienced the same loss. Yet did any other Vulcan attempt, or in fact succeed in killing another after this event?"

"No."

"Then you are not Vulcan. Do you deny this?" The wrinkles around her mouth were no more or less creased, but her eyes were bright, and Spock knew she was finally getting what she wanted. But Vulcans did not want. She was finally getting what she- what she-

"I am Vulcan," he whispered.

"You lie," she said.

"Ma'am, he was provoked." T'Ral and Spock both turned their heads to face McCoy, who had been watching the exchange with increasing irritation. "Jim was _trying_ to break his control. He kept saying Spock's father didn't love him, and that he never loved his father."

"My husband did not 'love' Spock," T'Ral reasoned, eyeing the doctor with little interest. "He was Vulcan. Vulcans do not have emotions." McCoy's eyes went wide and his lips parted. T'Ral looked back at Spock. "As for whether you felt love for Sarek, I could not say. Logic, however, indicates that you did not."

Spock did not have the energy to respond. T'Ral was his father's bondmate. She knew him best. If she said he had not loved Spock, then he had not, no matter what Spock thought he had seen right before his death. Vulcans did not lie.

"If you had respect for Sarek, like a Vulcan son," T'Ral continued, "or indeed, if you felt love, like a Human son, then you would not have lost your control." She lifted her chin and went relentlessly on. "The best way to have honored your father would have been to be strong, to command this ship, and do as he had taught you. And yet, he was not dead but an hour before you eschewed all the lessons he had set and harmed another being. You neither love nor respect your father, Spock. You befouled his memory and spat upon all he had done for you. Not all Vulcans would have looked after a screaming child, half animal in his behavior. Sehlats were more easily tamed than you."

T'Ral paused for a reaction, but she did not break him. Spock was already broken. He felt nothing.

Perhaps that meant he was fixed.

"You are dangerous, Spock. Do you deny this?"

"No," he answered, as emptily as he had ever spoken.

"Then you will allow me to enter your mind and establish control where it has long been absent."

"Yes."

T'Ral stepped in close, hand outstretched and clever fingers reaching for Spock's psi-points. Spock closed his eyes. It was over.

"NO!" Dr. McCoy leapt forward and grabbed her arm. "As his doctor, I say no."

The Vulcan woman looked from where his hand wrapped around her wool-clad arm to the doctor's face, stained a dark pink. "He has given his consent, Dr. McCoy. You have heard it."

The Human snorted and let go of her arm. "Yeah, I heard a lot of things. But I'm his doctor, and I say no." Spock stared. Had McCoy not understood the conversation that had taken place in front of him? Why would he prolong his fate?

His stepmother raised an eyebrow. "I have been Spock's healer since he was a small child. You would overrule my expertise?"

"Damned right, I would. Now get the hell out of my sickbay." All around them, the children's minds began to whirl in distress as they came into contact with the anger he was no doubt projecting.

T'Ral stepped back from Spock and faced the doctor fully. "I do not believe you comprehend the peril Spock presents to those around him. He must be dealt with."

"I'm a doctor, not an idiot," the Human retorted. "I'll tell you one thing, _Vulcan_, and you better listen real good. For someone who says, 'thou shalt not harm,' you sure don't practice what you preach. You think your logic makes you peaceful? Always makes you right?" McCoy laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Logic is just your excuse! You use it to wrap your feelings into pretty little packages to convince people to have it your way and think they won't notice. Logic. Logic at the expense of all else. What the hell do you know about love and emotion? You think Spock's an animal? Don't think I don't know you mean his _Humanity_. Are my emotions _vulgar_ to you?" Very deliberately, he stepped into her personal space and glared. "You don't know the half of it."

"Spock is the son of my husband. He will do as I say." T'Ral straightened to her full height, imposing and imperious.

"Spock is a Commander of Starfleet," McCoy answered, "and an officer of this ship. That means he's under _my_ jurisdiction. He'll damned well do as _I_ say."

"You would leave such a dangerous being in the midst of these defenseless Vulcan children? That is against both Vulcan logic, and that of a healer."

"Defenseless? Yeah, they are defenseless. Against _you_," he snarled, an accusatory finger bare millimeters from her face. "Get out."

"As a member of the Vulcan High Council, you cannot refuse me."

"As a member of the Vulcan High Council, you're a civilian guest on a military ship. Get out."

"If you recall, Doctor, you and your acting captain came to me, inviting me here-"

"What are you, a goddamn vampire? Invitation revoked! Get out!"

"Captain Kirk-"

"Will back up whatever I say. Get out."

"Doctor McCoy-"

"Get out!"

"I am T'Ral of the House of-"

"GET. OUT." The doctor shouted, and a small droplet of spittle flew from his mouth.

T'Ral did not flinch when it hit her cheek. "Control yourself, Dr. McCoy."

"Control myself?" His eyes flashed and he seemed, illogically, to grow in size. "Have you already forgotten? I'm an animal! I _can't_ control myself! If I wanna hurt someone I'll punch him in the face instead of twisting his goddamn mind!"

"Your behavior is unbecoming of a Starfleet officer."

"You don't know the first fucking thing about being an officer. If you don't get out of my sickbay right now, you'll see what an animal does when it has to defend its territory. Is that logical enough for you?"

For a moment the two stared at each other, T'Ral pale and motionless, McCoy tensed and furious. Then T'Ral: "I see there is no getting through to you, Doctor. I shall notify your superiors and return here with their response."

"Looking forward to it," he shot back.

T'Ral glanced at Spock, turned on her heels, and strode quickly out of the room. McCoy watched her leave, chest suddenly heaving like a bellows, and Spock could not quite comprehend that T'Ral had retreated. His stepmother did not retreat. No, she would return. She would return with new logic, new arguments, and she would bear down on McCoy and Kirk and maybe even Pike until they agreed. Perhaps it would be best if Spock were to resign now. He had been planning to do so for the good of his people – what little he could ever have done for Vulcans – but now there was even more reason. He could not let his own presence interfere with the running of the ship. "Doctor," he began.

McCoy whirled around. "Shut up, Spock!"

He had every right to be angry. Spock was keeping him from important tasks, and no doubt exhausting him further. "Doctor, I-"

"What in the hell were you thinking?" the Human interrupted. "Why would you let her touch you? You're not stupid."

Spock blinked. "The logic in her arguments was clear. She was to order my mind, so that there would not be another breach in my control."

"She was going to give you a goddamn Vulcan lobotomy, and you know it. Why would you let that happen?"

"Vulcans do not have-"

"I thought I told you to shut up!" McCoy said, voice rising again. "I never met you before being on this ship, but I've read your file and I know what you're capable of. You're smart and creative and brave, even if you do jump before looking. Just like Jim. And you must be doing something right, because he respects you. He doesn't respect people that easily. So where's your self-worth? Why didn't you ask to beam aboard? Why'd you want to die with that ship? Where's the logic? Where is it, Spock? You think you're a monster? You believe what she says? Well, don't!" He put a hand on each of Spock's shoulders and shook him. Taken aback, Spock did not block the assault. "Stop beating yourself up over choking Jim. Goodness knows he deserved it for what he said, because that wasn't an act of hate, Spock. It was an act of love. I know. So don't you dare believe what she says. Don't you dare! If I ever see you talking to her again, I'm going to box you between your goddamn pointy ears!"

"Doctor-"

"And then I'm going to take that gnarled old witch-"

"Doctor, please-"

"-and teach her what it means to do harm. First I'm gonna-"

"_Doctor_. The children."

McCoy stopped mid-diatribe and dropped his hands to his sides. He surveyed the room and saw what Spock had noticed: that the Vulcan children were crying out more loudly, some even tossing in their beds. McCoy's shoulders slumped and he ran a hand over his eyes. "They can sense my emotions without skin to skin contact?"

Spock nodded. Scanning the room, he watched as their rest began to ease. "I believe you project quite strongly."

The doctor looked at him sharply. "Believe?"

"I am shielding."

McCoy crossed his arms again and looked thoughtful. Spock had never seen a Human go through so many expressions in such a short period of time. Despite the fact he was still preoccupied with thoughts of T'Ral, Spock found himself fascinated. The doctor put a finger to his chin. "So not only can we not touch them- Humans shouldn't even be in here with them?"

Spock could perceive that even now their minds were beginning to strive toward him again. "No, Doctor. Your surmise is incorrect."

"How so?" McCoy asked, following him back to the girl he had been checking on earlier.

Spock sensed her mind; it had stopped healing, but what was begun had not been undone. It was difficult to believe, but the logic was incontrovertible: T'Ral was wrong. "T'Ral is wrong," he said out loud.

McCoy looked down at the girl, obviously wondering at what he could not see. "Talk to me, Spock."

"It is what you said," the other man began slowly, considering his words. "Vulcans dedicate themselves to logic above all else. As you said, 'at the expense.' She did not understand. She does not understand."

The Human shook his head in confusion. "Spock?"

At length Spock tore his eyes away from the Vulcan girl and searched the face of the doctor. "T'Ral asked that you do not touch them because they are unshielded, and it is taboo. The telepathic communication would be enormous." He attempted to explain utilizing the metaphor that McCoy had earlier made. "And she did not listen to them with her mind. T'Ral heard them, perhaps even more loudly than I; but she did not listen. Their minds are not speaking the language of logic. They have barely any sanity left."

McCoy took in a deep breath. "It's pure emotion."

"They seek home. They seek comfort." Spock clasped his hands behind his back and looked away. "They seek you."

Dr. McCoy sat down on the edge of the girl's bed. "You're telling me," he said, voice quiet and strained, "that we can save them just by touching them, like holding a kid after a nightmare? That we could have saved the ones that already died in our care?"

Spock nodded once, but still did not look him in the eye. The doctor buried his head in his hands. "We lost so many of them, Spock. So many of them. And who knows how many more on the other ships? And they could have been healed. They could have been saved." He ran his hands through his hair and over his head, then hooked them behind his neck, staring at his knees, at something only he could see. "Oh god," he whispered.

Spock said nothing. He was no longer needed here. He had fulfilled the acting captain's order, and now there were PADDs to sign and computers to fix in Engineering. And then, a resignation to tender.

"Wait," said McCoy when he was halfway across the room. Spock turned around and saw him stand up again. "You said they want me. Just me, or can anyone touch them?"

The doctor was still attracting the children's minds like the moon with Earth's tides. But there was no one else to compare. "Unknown."

McCoy nodded and walked toward him. "Give me your hand, Spock," he ordered, holding out one of his own.

Spock could not stop himself from taking a step back. "No."

"Doctor's orders," he huffed. "Give me your goddamn hand."

"Why?"

"You _know_ why, Spock," the doctor answered, irritated. But then he softened. "Please."

Spock examined the doctor's hand. It was large, tanned, and the fingers were long and able, no doubt full of skill honed by years of surgical training. Yet despite the delicate nature of his profession, the blue veins of the Human's palm travelled under calloused skin. McCoy was not unfamiliar with manual labor.

Only to compare, Spock lifted his own hand, pale and slender. Only to compare, he moved his hand closer. It shook. "For the children," he murmured.

"For the children," confirmed McCoy, not unkindly.

The first and only time Spock had ever had prolonged contact with a Human was when he had attempted to take Kirk's life. Then the emotions had hurtled into him, holding up a mirror to his own feelings before shattering him to bits. What sort of emotions was this Human hiding? And could Spock survive it a second time?

McCoy stretched out his hand further, so that it was directly beneath his own.

Spock let out a trembling breath and allowed his hand to fall.

Initially, all he felt was the warmth of the Human's hand, the roughness of McCoy's skin, and the small hairs tickling the sensitive nerve endings of Spock's fingertips. The emotions were there, crashing against the walls of his mind and pulsing against his shields, already cracking. McCoy's eyes bored into him, at once clinical and determined. "Let me in, Spock," he said. And Spock let him in.

_Concern. Curiosity. Wonder. _Now Spock could barely register the heat of the doctor's hand, nor how tightly it held his own. Everything was lost in the sudden inundation of feeling. _Anger. Worry._ Spock did not understand how McCoy could feel them all at once. _Exhaustion. Hatred. Concern, concern, and worry_. Concern for what? Hatred for whom? _Curiosity. Hesitation. Want. Worry, anger, and concern. _Spock swayed on his feet, and realized he was falling.

McCoy let go of his hand, but before Spock could pull away completely, the doctor wrapped an arm around his waist and grasped the back of his neck. He pressed their heads together, one day's worth of stubble scratching against his jaw. Spock felt the Human's warm, humid breath in the crook of his shoulder, and was utterly lost.

There was much more to be communicated through emotion than Spock could ever have imagined. A person needed no words, if he allowed himself to feel-

Spock drank it in, took it all, everything the Human offered him. McCoy was projecting so strongly he could do nothing but acknowledge it. He felt his grief for a planet disintegrated, a history erased, and a people near extinct. He felt his shame for not doing his duty, not following his instinct, and letting the children die. And he felt his anger.

McCoy had so much anger. There was residual anger at T'Ral, not only for what she had said a few minutes prior, but also for everything that it implied. Underneath it was shock and resentment for the pain she had caused in Spock's life, both accurately guessed and merely imagined. Beneath even that was a twin guilt and despair concerning the death of his own father, a matching wound, recent and raw, and then Spock felt approval.

He felt the doctor's approval and a sense of vindication for Spock's own anger. He felt, _thought_ (thoughts were full of emotion, how could Spock have been so wrong?) that it was healthy, that Spock _should_ be angry, that _those Romulan bastards deserved worse than what you dished out to them_ for destroying a planet, murdering his Academy peers, ripping apart the minds of children.

And he knew now. With the increased contact, Spock knew how McCoy could feel all the emotions at once, swirling and switching but never actually out of his control. They were all connected, all bound together, in love.

His grief, despair, his curiosity, and even his hatred all grew out of his love. If he did not love, he could not be hurt. If he did not love, he would not care about anything.

He mourned a planet he'd never seen because he loved the idea of it: he loved species built on different DNA, sunsets he'd never witnessed, knowledge passed down through the centuries with a foreign wisdom.

He mourned a people he didn't understand because he had an immutable love of life: he loved imperfections on people's skin, the way all the body's systems interweave and work together, the miracle that was a cell evolving into sentience.

He mourned the Vulcan children he had never raised, because he loved to care for the ill: he loved them because they reminded him of his daughter, because they were vulnerable and needed help, because _I'll be damned if their little pointed ears aren't the sweetest things I've ever seen_.

He loved them because no one else did, and he firmly believed it was impossible not to.

Beyond all that were the feelings he had regarding Spock. Anger, for having hurt his best friend. Admiration, for beaming down to rescue his family. Worry, for almost having died with Nero. Incredulity, for letting himself be subjugated by T'Ral. Fear, for agreeing to the destruction of a brilliant, beautiful mind. Determination, _I'll never let that happen_.

And because Spock had needed to prove he cared for his father, because he'd listened to what the children were saying, because he'd been brave enough to take the doctor's hand-

– because Humans had the awesome, unshieldable, infinite capacity to feel the emotion –

Leonard McCoy loved _him_.

Starting from that moment, Spock loved him back.

-o-

_And they embraced, and kissed one another, and journeyed happily home._

THE END


End file.
